Black Milk - Elif Shafak [81]
Your loving mom who looks forward to your arrival,
Elif
Week 28
Mama Rice Pudding insists that I go to prenatal yoga. She says I have to learn breathing techniques.
“I can breathe very well, don’t worry,” I say.
But she is persistent. She wants the birth to be as natural and wholesome as the ones she thinks our great-great-grandmothers had in the past. I don’t point out that our ancestors were hardly poring over yoga sutras before going into labor.
Week 29
There are ten women in the yoga course. Nine of them have their bellies against their noses. Either they are close to the end of their term or this course makes you puff up like a hot-air balloon. Maybe in her attempt to teach us breathing techniques the instructor is filling us up with heated air.
The only woman in the room who isn’t pregnant is our instructor: an athletic and joyful Brazilian with long, curly brunette hair. Her pearly-white smile greets me as she introduces me to the group.
“Let us welcome Elif and her baby into our circle of love,” she says and closes her eyes, already drifting away.
“Hello,” I say to the group, but their eyes, too, are shut.
“First we shall cleanse our chakras. We shall fortify our personal energies. Then we will practice the Pranayama breathing techniques. We will feel the rise from the Sushumna toward our head and then unite with Sahashara.”
Having no idea what we are supposed to do but copying the others all the same, I sit cross-legged on the floor, close my eyes and try to concentrate on this new language.
“Now let us feel the aura that wraps our bodies like a warm glove,” says the teacher. “Can you feel how delicate it is, almost silken?”
To my amazement, I can feel something, a new presence, except it doesn’t quite gently cloak my body but rather harshly pokes at my shoulder.
“Let’s all say ‘nice to see you’ to this soft energy of ours,” continues the teacher.
“Nice to see you,” I mumble.
“Same here,” comes an immediate response that jolts me.
The voice is strangely familiar. Suspicious, I open one eye to find Milady Ambitious Chekhovian standing on my left shoulder, staring at me.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper fiercely.
“Oh, nothing. We haven’t talked for a long time and I was curious as to what you were doing with your life.”
“Well, here I am.”
“You must have quite a bit of time on your hands to be bothering with this nonsense,” she says. “The last time I left you, you were writing novels. And now look at you.”
I don’t know what to say to that and wait for her next sentence.
“Come on, you should be writing fiction right now. Stories, ideas, plots, the world of imagination . . . They are all waiting for you. What are you doing here opening chakras, mumbling Indian words you can’t even pronounce? Oh, I wish you had listened to me when I asked you to get your tubes tied.”
Meanwhile, the teacher says zealously: “Yoga means ‘to unite’ in the Sanskrit language. Our aim is to ensure the unity of the body, the mind and the soul.”
Milady Ambitious Chekhovian snorts. “How about the unity of the finger-women? We are suffering under the worst monarchy.”
“Oh, please, give me a break,” I say. “Your military regime was even worse.”
“And now we are going to enter the realm within, where we will meditate on our heartbeat,” says the teacher, “and become One with the universe.”
“I’m leaving,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “You stay and become One with whomever you want for 250 lira a session.”
Oblivious to my attempts to say something, she jumps on the window ledge, gives a commander’s salute and leaves. I close my eyes and sit still but it’s no use. I can’t give myself over to the class anymore. Perhaps Milady Ambitious Chekhovian is right. Let alone uniting with the universe, I cannot even unite with the Thumbelinas inside.
Week 32
I go out shopping with Mama Rice Pudding and spend hours in maternity stores. I never knew there was